


Silver linings

by Iiandyr



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Healing, Mating Bond, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iiandyr/pseuds/Iiandyr
Summary: This takes place after the teaser for Acosf, but was written before Acosf was released. Potential spoilers ahead.Nesta and Cassian share a cabin at the Illyrian warcamp. Nesta would give anything be back in Velaris, or better yet, free of the oppression of being fae. After a fight, things heat up and something happens which neither of them expects.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 7
Kudos: 116





	1. The snapping

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory English is not my first language-comment.
> 
> Nesta is a fricking difficult character to write. But she's fascinating. I've had this idea for a while and I just needed to get it out of my head before Acosf comes out.

Nesta pushes open the door to the cabin she shares with the Commander. Her entire body aches, and she hasn’t seen the sun for weeks through the perpetually grey skies.

  
She has now been in this brutish camp _for weeks_ , being tortured _for weeks_. There is only one bar in this infernal place, and of course they have been instructed to turn her away at the door.

  
The first couple of days in camp she lingered outside in the shadows, attempting to cajole the males into purchasing drinks for her, even stooping so low as to bribe them. They wouldn’t even look at her, just taking the long way around her, all the while muttering under their breath.

  
They didn’t dare be too loud, lest the Commander would hear their curses, but Nesta heard them loud and clear. _Witch_ , they’d say. _Unnatural enchantress, high fae harlot, riffraff_.

  
The following week she spent in the cabin, hurling her guts out and rummaging through every cabinet for a drop of liquor, though she knew she would find none. Her sister, it appeared, had been thorough in ridding her of her pleasures.

  
After the worst of the abstinence had settled, only occasional shivers wrecking her body, she had returned to the shadows outside the bar to indulge in her other favorite pastime. She didn’t have high hopes, and, in this too, the Illyrians lived up to her expectations. She had tried all the tricks in the book; dressing down to her shift and stays, putting on sultry make up stolen from one of the females, and when all else had failed she had resigned to using her hand.

  
She made it her mission to make enough noise to intimidate the Commander out of the cabin, and did so at any opportune moment. He usually fled the cabin at the first sign of her pleasures.

  
It was a hollow victory. She missed the crushing weight on top of her, the rough hands that would leave bruises on her skin for days, the unwavering hammering that was equal measures pleasure and pain.

  
So finally, she had broken. The tension became too much: a constant unscratchable itch, a perpetual ache in her groin, and so, to Cassian’s satisfaction, she had relented to taking part in training. Anything to chase away the hollowness inside.  


  
Every morning, she and a band of Illyrian females swung unwieldy weapons, sparred, and performed drills meant to hone muscle and mind, all to the tune of a coarse lieutenant's shouts.

  
Afterward the winged females would head to the communal bathing house to clean up, before scattering around the camp for various chores. Nesta would head back to the cabin, where no one could watch her sit for hours, building up the courage to get into the bath. By the time she did, the water was cold, and she hastily lathered her sore limbs.

  
After training, she usually heads straight to the bathing chamber, but today she scours the living area after closing the door. The cabin is silent, yet a bowl of smoking broth stands on the table. So the Commander is home, then. She knows they share a cabin so he can keep an eye on her, and she resents it. But after training, if he’s home, he makes sure there’s food prepared. She never accepts it if she can help it, but now her stomach growls, betraying her, and she figures she might as well give in. Just this once.

  
The warmth of the broth thaws her stiff fingers. The smell invades her senses. The hot liquid pools in her stomach as she sips, chasing away any remnant coldness inside her. Didn’t this infernal place ever get warm?

  
A chuckle from the far side of the room.

  
“Good. You need to replenish your energy. After you’ve washed up, we’re going to visit Devlon’s camp.”

  
Cassian stands in his door in a wide-legged stance, dressed only in a pair of pants, his powerful arms and torso on full display, his hair falling messily around him. He’s fastening the last button in his fly, apparently having been interrupted halfway through dressing.

  
The morning workouts do a fine enough job of tiring Nesta’s body, but seeing him in that state of undress reminds her mind of what it’s missing. How those arms could hoist her up against the wall, those canines mark her clavicle as he pushes into her. She curses her traitorous brain, fighting against the tingling in her arms, telling her to reach for him, fighting against that sense in the back of her brain that whispers to her to move closer, constantly pushing her to him. The want isn’t specifically for him, of course. Merely for sex, she reassures herself. It’s a different kind of heat that now pools inside her.

  
She won’t let him see her inner struggle if she can help it. She slams the bowl down on the table, the remaining broth splashing over the wood, and says:

  
“ _We_ will do no such thing.”

  
She stalks toward the bathing chamber, but as she passes him, his strong hand curls around her wrist and halts her in her steps. His voice is suddenly soft, as if he can sense that weakness in her. He probably can. His senses are as keen as hers, and she smells the arousal emanating from herself clear as day.

  
“Hey”, he says.

  
She hates his vulnerability. Hates what it does to her, some primordial part in her new fae mind pushing her to care for him, telling her to stake out the environment, seek out any threat to him and nullify it. She can’t stop it, even when she knows the only threat is she, herself.

  
_His torn wings flash before her. His hazel eyes glazed with pain. She can’t do anything as rough hands push her into the cauldron._

  
“Get your hands off me!”

  
She pulls her arm away, but his grip holds fast. Not painful, just enough that she can’t break free. If it were any other pinning her like this she would succumb to panic, but this is just Cassian.

  
She won’t meet his eyes, won’t risk seeing his pain.

  
“I told you …” she starts again, but Cassian cuts her off.

  
“I heard you fine the first time.”

  
The tenderness is gone from his voice, hard steel replacing it. What changed? She risks glancing up. He’s so close to her. His bare torso mere inches from her face, his warmth radiating through her. She can spy his chest lifting with each breath he takes, those tattoos whirling over his shoulders like snakes. His wings ensconce them, and with the light illuminating them from behind she can see every vein, every tint of red and blue. His musky smell finds its way up her nose, driving that instinctual part of her brain to madness. _Closer, closer_ , it beckons.

  
“I’m not going”, she says, finally meeting his eyes.

  
Those all-seeing eyes, flecks of green and brown and gold.

  
Those eyes only stare back at her.

  
“You don’t have a choice. Your sister asked to see you.”

  
Nesta bites down so hard her jaw pops. “If Feyre will be there I’m not going. Feyre doesn’t decide what I do.” Of course, that’s a lie. Otherwise she wouldn’t be here, in this camp, surrounded by uncivilized fae and henpecked females.

  
But it’s a lie they both perpetuate, pretending that Nesta somehow is here of her own volition, pretending she somehow isn’t a wreck.

  
“She’s your High Lady, and she has requested your presence. You’re going.”

  
“Oh, and I suppose you’ll force me? Pin me over your shoulder and fly me all the way there? I might be sore from training, but I can kick just fine, you know.”

  
Cassian snorts. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  
He’s no doubt remembering the time Rhysand flew her down from the House of Wind, her humiliating sickness afterwards. She has resisted flying ever since.

  
He continues: “Rhys will winnow us there. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.”

  
This rekindles her anger. Feyre is one thing, but Nesta can’t stand her siste’s mate. She can feel the ghost of his prodding mind, feel his judgement boring into her even now. He is a mean-spirited male; ruthless, inconsiderate. She again pulls her arm back to get out of Cassian's grip, but the Commander follows the motion and she ends up with her back against the wall.

  
A short moment of panic overtakes her as she finds herself trapped, but his chest comes closer, and his scent overpowers the dread. Her primal senses rejoice.

  
She’s reminded of the heat between her legs, the throbbing sensation driving away even her nightmares. That tension that’s always between them, reminding her he’s there, close by, even when she’s sleeping.

  
He’s looking down at her, the lust clear in his eyes as they drift from her face to her lips, and back. If they were any closer she doesn’t doubt she’d feel every inch of his attraction against her stomach.

  
He lifts his other hand, the one that doesn’t hold her steady, and trails a rough-hewn finger over her cheekbone. It’s a light touch, but the warmth against her skin starts a fire in her stomach. She gasps.

  
His eyes lock on her lips, and slowly he descends over her.

  
She wants to want to pull free, slap him over the face for his insolence, but that’s not what her mind tells her. That notion in the back of her head spurs her on, victoriously, nudging her to breach that gap between them. _Do it_ , it entices her. _Kiss him_.  


  
And so she does. Their lips crash together in a fight for dominance, her fingers finally finding the rock hard muscle of his back and squeezing, clawing. The back of her hand comes into contact with his wing -- so soft, almost velvety -- and he groans.  


  
His calloused fingers stroke her waist through her fighting leathers, trailing upward to find her breast and gently kneading it. The leathers are too thick, the sensation is lost, and she doesn’t want gentle anyway.

  
She pushes against him, and he willingly backs away, letting her propel them to his room. She sees only the bed, and when the back of his knees hit the bed frame he sits down, pulling her into his lap. She can feel his hardness against her thigh and her insides throb in answer. Even through the frenzy that primal part of her is singing.

  
His tongue has found its way past her lips to battle with hers, and he whines when she pulls back to tear off her bodice. Her fingers tremble and he helps her with the clasps, but his are not much better. Eventually the covering falls away. His mouth immediately finds her breast and laves at the nipple, taking it between his lips and sucking.

  
She cries out, braiding her fingers through his hair and pushing him closer. She grinds her hips to his for friction, and he growls and breaks free, throwing her down on the bed, and crawls over her.

  
Her primal part is sending her wave after wave of pleasure. _Finally_ , it tells her, and she can’t quite figure out if it’s because of the sex, or because it’s him.

  
His heaviness pushes her into the mattress, his wings blocking out the room. She can see the scars from Hybern, scattered all over, but even with them, the wings are beautiful. The colors scatter like light over a crystal. She surprises herself by letting out a laugh of delight, then reaches over his shoulder and strokes it.

  
“Nesta”, he groans. His hips grind into hers, and she savours what she feels. Curious, his reaction to the touch. It doesn’t feel intimate, they're just wings.

  
She strokes it again and is rewarded with another hard thrust. Her hands find his face and pull him back down to her lips. She kisses him hard, biting his lip to show him how she wants to be treated. Her fingers slide down his torso and find the buttons to his pants. The fabric is soft against her skin, and should be easier to shed than her own leathers, but the bulge stretches against the fastenings. She tears into the fabric in frustration and Cassian lets out a little chuckle, but only helps her pull the pants over his hips.

  
When he’s naked he sits back on his haunches and wrests the buckles of her remaining leathers.  


  
The smell of arousal permeates the room, and as he yanks at the straps, she lets her fingertips roam over his body. The muscle under his skin is rock hard. She slips her hands over his shoulders, his neck and then down his torso, ridging every hill and valley of his physique. Finally her hands reach his length, she brushes it with a featherlight touch, and she can see the last of the hazel disappear from his eyes. They dilate to a black well and he shows his teeth in a snarl. The clasps on her leathers tear with a rip, and she kicks off the offending garment.

  
Before she can think he has her legs in a tight grip and throws them over his shoulders. He pulls her closer. She yelps at the sudden movement, and then again as his tongue finds her folds. He licks his way up her, nuzzling his nose against her nub and lets a warm breath tickle her.

  
For a second the sensation overwhelms her, she can only cry out, but then she regains control. It’s too soft, it won’t hold her nightmares at bay.

  
“No. No”, she moans.

  
He lets up and his eyes find hers over her mound. He licks his lips.

  
The sight is enough to almost give in and let the passion ride her, but the tenderness is too much.

  
She growls. “I need you in me. Now.”

  
Cassian starts, but lets go of her legs and crawls back over her. His gaze never waivers from hers, even as he nudges her legs further apart, and guides himself to her entrance.

  
She gasps as he pushes in. _Yes, yes! Finally!_ that fae part of her mind calls out. Her fingers find his back and she pushes her nails into the flesh, urging him harder, faster. Their hips lock together and it’s his turn to gasp. He stills, recovering his breath and then pulls out slowly. Then, with a wild scream he buries himself to the hilt.

  
Her vision becomes white hot at the snapping of their hips, hitting something deep inside her. She’s only partially aware she also lets out a scream, and when she comes down from the sensation she realizes he’s stopped. His mouth is agape, those black orbs flickering over her like a terrified animal.

  
That’s when she feels it. That notion in the back of her mind, that thing that always pulls her to him clicks into place. It’s like the push of a lever. One second it’s dark, and then the entire world lights up. He’s still inside her, motionless, propped up over her, and seemingly incapable of moving.

  
She’s in shock, she realizes. From the look on his face, he is too. He throbs inside her and the feeling pulls her back to reality.

  
Before she knows it, her hands find his shoulders and push him off her. She lets out an angry roar as his warmth leaves her, and she crawls backwards to get further away from him.

  
“What was that!?” she demands. “What did you do to me!”

  
Any arousal is immediately gone, replaced by cold dread. That sensation, like a cord wrapped around her mind, the one that always reminds her of his presence, is tangible, urging her to return to his arms. But her anger is like fire, all-consuming, and resisting isn’t hard.

  
Cassian swallows. His eyes are wide, and she wonders if he’s capable of saying even a word, but then he seems to collect himself.

  
“The mating bond”, he whispers.

  
She knows it, has seen it happen to not only one, but two, sisters. One part of her knew this was coming for her, knew there was something between them, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Not one bit.

  
“I choose!” she roars at him, as if this was his fault. The skin prickles with the sudden coldness in the room and she pulls up a corner of the blanket to her chest, trying futilely to cover up. “It’s my choice! No one else chooses for me!”

  
Her nightmares flash in front of her. No, not nightmares, but her truth. She has had all choice taken from her. First her position as a lady, then her home, her humanity. She won’t let this be taken from her too.

  
_Choose this_ , that thread seems to say. She shakes her head, to try to dislodge the voice from her head.

  
Cassian lowers his head, trying to hide the feelings that no doubt emanate from his eyes. He was never good at hiding his emotions, his affection too strong to be kept on the inside.

  
But it doesn’t matter that she can’t see those expressive eyes, even without the sagging shoulders she would know his feelings. She can feel them, through that thread binding them together.

  
An overwhelming sadness pulses through that string, so pervasive that she can’t separate it from her own feelings, even though she knows it’s his. That’s grief, flowing from him to her. Grief that she doesn’t want him. Grief for all she’s been put through. That he hasn’t been able to help her.

  
She’s being thrown in the cauldron, the image pulsing through her, but the angle is wrong, she realizes. This isn’t her memory, it’s his. His nightmare.

  
The primal part of her brain takes over, and her anger is replaced by that instinct: to take care of her mate, to make sure he’s safe, and content. Even though she logically knows he’s unharmed, she can’t stop herself from scooting closer to him, putting her hands on his shoulders to feel him.

  
“Hey”, she says softly, echoing his words from earlier.

  
Cassian lifts his head at that, but avoids her gaze.

  
She wants to tell him it’s fine. That nothing of what’s happened is his fault, but the sadness pulses again, scraping against her mind, trying to find its way in. She doesn’t need his sadness too. She needs to think. She puts up walls, like Amren has taught her, determined to shut it out, but at his words, she loses the grip.

  
“You always have a choice, Nesta”, he says. That’s a sad smile on his lips. She realizes he knows she’ll fight this bond between them and he’s prepared to let it go. She can feel it decimating him.

  
The sadness sweeps through her walls like a hurricane, thoroughly infiltrating her mind. How is she supposed to make a decision either way when she can’t concentrate?

  
“I”, she starts, unable to finish the sentence for the ache burning through her throat. She swallows. “I need to think”, she says, trying to convey she hasn’t decided yet. Since when is she this doting? His feelings aren’t her problem. The bond makes it so.

  
Cassian nods. He looks away, staring into the wall.

  
_It’s not meant to be this way_. It’s Cassian’s thought, in her head. _It’s meant to be happy_.

  
Nesta scoffs. “Tell that to Elain and Lucien”, she says.

  
She thinks he smiles at that.

  
She looks around, to the bedspread that’s crumpled, to the garments that somehow have ended up on the other side of the room. With all arousal gone, it just looks laughable. With all arousal gone she can now smell the scent of them, his windpined musk, and her … She wrinkles her nose. Her stale sweat lies as a sheen over her skin. She still hasn’t washed after her training that morning.

  
“I’ll go wash.” She pushes up to standing and crosses her arms over her chest in a vain attempt to cover herself.

  
She’s surprised at how well she handles herself. She had expected panic to overwhelm her, make her a sobbing mess, but instead, she’s calm. Not entirely in control as his thoughts and feelings rush over the bond, but collected. He sits quietly as she exits the room, images rushing through his head, which she does her best to shut out.

  
It’s the fastest she has ever managed to build up the courage to get in the bath. The water is scalding, and scrubbing away the dirt is a breeze. Scrubbing her mind clean of Cassian’s thoughts prove to be a harder task. Both of their thoughts run amok, but the bond won’t let her logical side take over, instead drowning her with image after image from Cassian’s mind. He doesn’t have the mental training, and so they both are subjected to his mirages. Most of them are memories they share, but some are hopeful fantasies. These are the hardest ones to shut out.

  
He sees them together under the night sky at the House of Wind, falling stars speckling the darkness. He sees them together on a cliff, looking out over the ocean by Velaris, curled in his wings. And them together in a cabin much like this one, in Cassian’s arms a toddler with Cassian’s dark skin and Nesta’s hair.

  
Nesta shakes the images from her head. How is she going to be able to _think_ with his feelings intruding on her like this? She summons all the knowledge Amren taught her and manages to shut out most of it.

  
This bond, what will she do about it? It would be so easy to give in, but if she does, that last remnant of control over her life will go with it. Part of her wants it, wants him. Maybe together they could find solace. She remembers her feelings on that battleground, the King of Hybern looming over her and how she refused to move. Had the bond snapped in that moment, she would have gladly given in. The memory nearly sends her into panic and she dismisses it from her mind.

  
After patting dry she returns to her own room. She won’t risk picking up her fighting leathers for fear of seeing him and being rustled anew with that grief, so she opts for a lilac dress. It’s nothing ornate, but they’re only going to see Devlon, she muses. Anything more would be to throw pearls before swine.

  
Only as she’s back in the kitchen, reheating that broth, does she realize she’s resigned herself to going with them to Devlon’s camp without realizing it. She wants to fight her sister’s orders. She shouldn’t want to go with him to see Devlon, but she does. She doesn’t look forward to seeing her sister, but she can’t leave Cassian in his current state. She can still feel his grief that she’ll reject the bond hovering somewhere over her shoulder. She curses the bond.

  
Another stronger wave of his sadness hits her -- damn him, doesn’t he have _any_ control over his mind? -- and she calls to him, as she picks out two clean bowls.

  
“Stop sulking! Rhysand will be here any minute. We need to get ready.”

  
Since when is she this put together? She was always the miserable mess, unable to fight her inner demons. It’s like the bond snapping in place has shifted something in her. Those fears somehow seem more distant now.

  
She can hear him shuffling around in his room, and when he enters the kitchen he’s fully dressed, back in those pants she tore off earlier, and a leather jacket. His siphon glows red, ready to envelop him in his armor at a moment’s notice. At least his sadness seems to be curbed, leaving place for wonder and a warm affection.

  
She can feel his eyes on her, but she ignores him, instead transferring the warm broth into bowls.

  
“We’ll need to eat if we’re to handle Devlon”, she says, placing the dishes on the table and moving to sit down. Something in his face makes her stop. Stunned silence, his eyes narrowed to slits, like his mind is churning.

  
“What?” she demands.

  
Cassian’s eyes slide down to the bowl on his side of the table, then back to her.

  
“Are you aware what that means?” he says.

  
Even though his tone is full of suspicion, she can feel a new sensation roaring down the bond. Hope. And it’s enough to make her realize her faux pas. She’s read enough romance novels during her time in the Night Court to know a food offering is evidence of accepting a mating bond. It’s not what would set the bond in stone, of course, but it sends a signal. A signal of an acceptance she is not yet ready to acknowledge.

  
Fast as lightning she grabs his bowl and dumps it down the drain. Then she faces him, daring him to protest.

  
She expects that grief to return, she braces for it, but instead he only snickers. Something like pride flickers down the bond.

  
“That’s my girl”, he says, and goes to the stove to heat his own food.

  
She waits for him to sit down before lifting her spoon. Neither of them say a word, but it’s a companionable silence. He seems to have managed to control his feelings, only sporadic bouts of bleakness flashing down the bond. Occasionally there’s even a glimmer of amusement, and that arousal. As it brushes against her, she can feel her core warm again. They never did get to finish.

  
There’s a knock on the door, and Rhysand enters. He’s immaculate, as always, in his black outfit. Unperturbed. It’s not fair, she muses, her own thoughts still a jumbled mess.

  
“Are you ready?” he asks, but stops on the threshold. Stock still he stands, his nostrils flaring. No doubt smelling the arousal, scanning Cassian’s mind for what’s happened.

  
Cassian growls at the sight of his friend. “Don’t you dare say anything”, he warns, and Rhysand squares his shoulders. Cassian is still taking deep breaths, fighting to keep calm. Nesta looks him up and down. She can sense the turmoil in him, that rage at the sight of another male looking at his mate.

  
“Maybe I better leave”, Rhysand says, turning around in the doorway. Over his shoulder he lets them know they’re relieved of their duty, and as quick as he arrived, he’s gone.

  
She snickers, marvelling at Cassian's newfound lack of discipline. The romance novels she read spoke of this, the jealousy and protectiveness in regards to the mating bond. Especially after the bond has been accepted.

  
Nesta doesn’t want defending, the last thing she needs is to be sheltered. But there’s more flowing down that bond as he looks at her: awe, love, gratitude. She could get used to that part. And though they didn’t get far, that sex might be nice, too.

  
Surprise shows in his face, and she understands she’s let her thoughts escape down the bond. She squares her jaw and curses herself for her lapse of control.

  
She finishes the last of her broth, and rises, leaving the dishes to him.

  
“Since it seems we just got the night off, I’ll be in my room. _Thinking_ ”, she emphasizes, to let him know she’s still far from decided on the bond.

  
Amusement trickles down the bond, and he pulls a hand through his infuriatingly lovely hair. When he speaks, the teasing is back in his voice.

  
“Go ahead, sweetheart. If you must think of me while you do it, I understand.”

  
Is he insinuating what she thinks he is? Yes, he is. His eyes slowly trace her from top to bottom appreciatively, wiggling an eyebrow.

  
She harrumphs and crosses her arms. “I would rather think of a toad.”

  
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through the bond and going straight to her groin. He feels it too, that heat rising, and before he can say anything she turns on her heel and returns to her room.

  
She slams her door to shut out the clinking sounds from the kitchen, and falls back in her bed. She tries to picture that toad, to suppress the heat, but his goading eyebrows come to the forefront of her brain. Another image flickers past. Her own dishevelled face, as she’s sprawled out on his bed, his mouth setting her on fire. It’s his memory, being sent down the bond, and she groans, burying her face in her pillow. Her thighs tingle, and she lets her hand drift down to tickle the skin, pinch the folds between two fingers and draw lazy circles around it.

  
How will she be able to share a cabin with this male, feeling this way? The tension between them before had been … stiff, at best. Now, being unable to stop the images flowing between them …

  
She smiles to herself. Maybe there’s a silver lining to their situation: she lets her fingers continue their ministrations, sighing with pleasure, and sends the image down the bond.

  
The sound of shattering earthenware comes from the kitchen and she snickers. No, it won’t be so bad, after all.


	2. The memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhysand and Feyre host a party, which Nesta and Cassian are forced to attend. Pining and angst ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silver linings was meant to be a one off story, but I re-read Acowar in anticipation for Acosf and realized how often Cassian draws away from Nesta when Mor is around. I couldn't understand why, so I wanted to explore it, and get a better understanding of Cassian. This is what came out of it.

The stars are especially bright over Velaris tonight. They reflect in the Sidra, and help the faelight illuminate the garden around the new estate. 

Elain has done a fine job with the space while Cassian and Nesta have been cooped up in the Illyrian mountains. Bushes with night blooming flowers are planted at the riverfront, and closer to the house an assortment of blossoms. No roses, though.

Cassian leans on the railing by the river, where the scent of jasmine is nearly overwhelming. Az stands next to him. They’ve been talking for some time, waiting for the guests to arrive.

Rhys and Feyre are hosting a party for some merchants from the mainland, to encourage trade, and since there are humans here, Nesta has been fetched from the mountains to play her role as emissary. They all know the title is only for show these days, but she’s been doing better lately. Cassian can’t wait for everyone to see her progress tonight. 

Cassian doesn’t strictly need to be here, but where Nesta goes, he goes. Especially these days, since the bond snapped in place only a month earlier.

She still won’t talk to him, only letting him know every now and again, when they’re thrown in a room together, that she still hasn’t decided if she’s willing to accept the bond or not. Cassian wonders how she’s supposed to decide either way, when she won’t spend time with him. But the teasing is back, crowding out the numbness he knows she has felt for a long time, and that’s a relief. Although, some of the teasing is nearly unbearable. Sometimes, after training, she sends images down the bond of her pleasuring herself. It’s still winter in the Illyrian mountains, but every time she does, he flies to a lake nearby to cool off. His wings can’t take the icy shock much longer.

“Az, what will I do if she turns me down?”

He knows he’s whining to his friend, but he can’t help it. There is no one in Illyria he can talk to about these things, and it’s been dammed up for too long. As soon as he saw his brother this morning, it all came tumbling out.

Just a year ago, Azriel wouldn’t have reacted well to their bond. Cassian has been the buffer between Mor and Az for too long, and Cassian knows both of them well enough to see how the stormy start of his relationship with Nesta affected them both. But something has changed in his brother lately. Cassian can’t put his finger on what, but the Shadowsinger isn’t as melancholy. His shadows flowing looser around his shoulders.

Today when Cassian arrived, Azriel was already in the garden, watching Feyre and Elain bustle about to prepare for the party. The females were hanging lanterns and discussing placement for tables of refreshment, or where they should leave room for dancing. Neither of them did much of the heavy lifting, of course, merely instructing and being in the way of the servants. All the while, the Shadowsinger had been sitting on a bench, his wings spread out behind him to tan in the sun, his eyes closed in a peaceful expression. His hands were covered in dirt, after helping Elain plant bulbs at the front of the house.

Now Azriel gives a sad smile at the General’s frustration. He knows there is nothing he can say to still Cassian’s boiling blood, so he doesn’t try.

Rhys comes out of one of the large doors at the house and sees them, walking toward them leisurely, like he’s on a midnight stroll. Considering the hour, it’s not far off.

Velaris shows its best side at night, and since its High Lord wants to impress these people, the party will be outside, despite the slight chill in the air. But they will start inside, where they can show off their new home.

“It’s starting”, Rhys tells them by way of greeting. “Shall we go meet our guests?” he continues, gesturing toward the house.

While Feyre and Elain have been preparing the gardens for the party, Nesta has been locked up in a room in the estate, Nuala and Cerridwen keeping close guard. Cassian aches for her, but knows the old Nesta couldn’t be left to her own devices. He has tried to tell Feyre that her sister is better now, but his High Lady tells him she wants to see it for herself first. In a way, this is Nesta’s unwitting trial.

Az nods to Rhys to lead the way. Cassian stifles a grimace, but pushes off the railing to follow the two.

Rhys came to get him and Nesta at the Illyrian camp earlier that morning. He winnowed them straight into the riverfront estate, and Cassian was able to feel Nesta’s apprehension through the bond. Her first time back since that day they informed her she was going with him to the mountains. 

As they walked through the entrance of the house and into Feyre’s study, Nesta was looking for something, her gaze flitting between the paintings lining every wall. Her sadness and anger leaked over the bond as she was too busy scanning the rooms to keep her feelings in check.

He followed her gaze, for the first time seeing the paintings in a new light. They are beautiful, of course, masterly executed pieces of their chosen family. But as Cassian watched them through Nesta’s eyes he realized the entire family is there -- except her.

Even Varian is in a small painting in the corner of the hall Rhys now leads them through. So where the fuck are Nesta’s portraits? 

Rhys leads them to the foyer, where a steady line of people is filing in through the front door. He tells his brothers to stay close to the door, out of the way, and ready if something happens. That something, most likely, being Nesta. Then Rhys makes his way up the stairs to where Feyre stands, ready to make a welcoming speech as soon as everyone has arrived and quieted.

The guests are merchants from the Faerie realms and the mortal lands, as well as some select Velaris families. It turns out, war has a stifling effect on trade, and Rhys has decided the relations between the countries need a boost. Even a couple of merchants from Adriata and the Day Court have been invited. 

Varian is among the crowd, of course, hanging off Amren’s arm, and for some reason the High Lord, Tarquin, is with them. Standing next to the trio is Morrigan, Cassian realizes. He had thought she would be on the continent by now, or wherever she’s been hiding lately. His stomach twists, and with a sudden nervousness he scans the room for Nesta. If he can help it, he doesn’t want the two of them together. Too volatile. But he can’t spot Nesta, and breathes a sigh of relief.

He examines Mor’s appearance. She’s laughing at something Tarquin says. Her long hair shines in the candle light, and she looks healthy, happy. Good, she deserves it.

Then a thought occurs to him. Will she be able to tell about the mating bond snapping in place? Nesta still hasn’t accepted him, and so their scents aren't intertwined, but Mor knows Cassian too well. He doesn’t have Azriel’s shadows or Rhys’ practiced facade to hide behind. 

She’ll know. 

Suddenly his heart beats like a thousand hooves bolting over a steppe. His breaths escape his nose in heavy puffs. She’ll know. She relies on Cassian to be there and buffer between her and Az, and she’ll break if he can’t do it anymore. 

He looks to Rhys, his High Lord’s head bowed down to Feyre’s at the top of the steps. Has he told Mor what happened that time a month ago, when he stumbled in on Cassian and Nesta, right after the bond snapped in place?

The memory of Nesta across from Cassian at that dinner table, leads to another image. One where she’s underneath him, panting, her heir fanned around her on the pillow. His stomach twists lightly in arousal, but it’s overpowered by the dread.

Azriel observes him with raised eyebrows. He can tell something is wrong, but won’t pry.

“Don’t go too close to Tarquin, if you can help it”, Azriel says instead, trying to distract him. “Feyre and Rhys just had the house built. I’m sure our High Lady won’t be happy to start a renovation so soon.”

Right. Cassian remembers what happened the last time he visited the Summer Court. Is Tarquin still mad? But Cassian can’t bring himself to care right now. He only glares at his brother, and crosses his arms, as if the movement could suppress that panic that wants to rise in him. His wings are stiff with anxiety, so he stretches them behind him.

Several guests are now quieting to stare at the pair of them, having noticed the wings, and Cassian knows Azriel is only trying to distract the both of them. He’s surprised that his brother isn’t already melting into the shadows.

But then Mor catches sight of them, and Cassian understands why Azriel still stands visible beside him. Mor waves, says something to Tarquin, and then walks toward the winged pair.

“Where have you two been hiding? I’ve been looking for you.”

She smiles, and leans in to hug Cassian. He has time to think maybe he shouldn’t, remembering with a twinge the contention between Mor and Nesta. But centuries of friendship and familiarity kicks in, and hugging Mor back is second nature. Her golden hair flows down her back, he’s careful to not snag his siphons in it. 

When she turns to Azriel, Cassian observes them both. Cassian has been holed up in the Illyrian mountains to keep the armies (and Nesta) in check, and hasn’t seen them interact in a while. But it’s not Az’ and Mor’s usual hesitant body language. Where is that fear of crossing the line that has always been Cassian’s role to maintain. Instead they smile at each other. A mysteriously, absolutely at ease smile. Did something happen while he was away? Is that something related to Azriel’s newfound easy air?

“How’s Tarquin?” Azriel asks of Mor, nodding over to where Tarquin is still standing with Amren and Varian. Tarquin looks uncomfortable next to the couple. When Amren and Varian kiss, Tarquin glances at Mor with wide eyes, as if asking her to save him.

Mor laughs softly. “He was intrigued about Velaris, how we managed to keep it hidden for so long. It didn’t take much for Feyre to persuade him to come. I think he longs for our friendship as much as we do.”

“I’m not surprised”, Azriel answers. Then, after a beat, he looks around. “Where is Elain?”

Cassian quickly scans the room and realizes neither of Feyre’s sisters are there. His heart twitches. Where is Nesta? Before, when he spotted Mor, he had been so relieved Nesta wasn’t there, he hadn’t thought to wonder any further.

“She’s with Nesta”, Mor answers, giving Cassian a sideways glance. What did that glance mean?

“Where’s that?” Cassian bites, but he can guess. Under close guard in one of the guest rooms, or if she’s lucky, in the library. 

What is the point of bringing Nesta to Velaris if they’re going to keep her locked up? A sheen of anger as red as his siphons suddenly trickles forth. The injustice of it all makes his insides twist. He sends a gentle prod down the bond to assure himself she is fine, but is met with steel hard darkness.

Before Mor has time to answer him it seems the last of the guests finally arrive, because the front doors slam shut, and Feyre steps forward on the top of the stairs.

“Welcome!” she says. Her smile is warm, looking out over the people she’s responsible for bringing together. Rhys stands behind her, his hand on her shoulder. 

She looks so happy, like nothing is wrong, and Cassian grits his teeth. 

Does she realize how her sister suffers? Even now, being locked away, kept from a party she didn’t want to attend in the first place. And Feyre has the gall to stand there and smile. 

The week prior, when Feyre had told him that he and Nesta would be expected in Velaris for the party, Cassian tried. This time, he really tried to talk Feyre out of it, saying it had to be Nesta’s choice whether to come. He tried to instill in Feyre those feelings that Nesta had been spilling over their bond for the last month. 

How Nesta had lost everything: her home, her sense of self. She had been banished, ripped from a place of her own, and now that she was starting to find it in the Illyrian mountains, it would be cruel to once again drag her away from it.

“It’s only for a night”, Feyre had said, her stare adamant, but tired. She and Rhys worked themselves half to death these days, sitting in meetings with the Hewn City and worrying about the Illyrian uprising, only to stay up most nights trying for a baby.

He doesn’t think Feyre is right in her justification, but he understands her. She is happy in her bubble, and doesn’t understand how her sister can’t find happiness in the same way. 

Cassian hadn’t understood Nesta either. Not before the bond finally snapped, and all those feelings Nesta kept on the inside tumbled out, hitting him like an ash arrow straight to the heart. 

Now that he knows how she feels, he is ashamed of himself. When she had indulged in her self harming behaviour he hadn’t known how to help, so he had stayed away, leaving her on her own, without options. When Feyre had suggested taking Nesta to the mountains, he should have protested. He should have insisted it was Nesta’s choice to make, and to find a way to help her in Velaris. Instead, he had been selfish. He needed to go to the mountains to keep his generals in check, and when Feyre offered him the choice to bring Nesta, he had jumped on it. In doing so, he had helped Feyre take that last bit of control away from his mate.

He squirms, looking away from Feyre, who is still making that speech he hasn’t heard a word of. His gaze instead falls to Mor, which isn’t much better. Nesta had let slip many memories and feelings over the bond during the last month, but there was one image he couldn’t shake from his head: 

_They were in the war camp, before the real battle with Hybern began. She was bandaging his sprained wrist after he had come back with an injury. She felt his pain on him, the bond grazing them even then, imposing peripheral awareness of each other. She took his arm gently, and wrapped it._

_Afterwards, as she met his stare, that fire sparking between them urged her to close the distance between them, to kiss him. He’d brushed a thumb down her hand like a whisper of a caress, and she’d opened her mouth to tell him to be safe. Then, Mor had arrived, and Cassian had snatched his hand from Nesta’s and pivoted away. A bleak ghost of a touch on her hand, where his had been._

He doesn’t know if Nesta showed him this memory intentionally or if it had simply slipped over in one of her weaker moments. But although the memory in itself horrifies him, it isn’t what sears him. What makes his blood starch even now is the feeling that accompanied the image: shame.

Nesta thought he was embarrassed to be seen with her. _Wreck, disgrace_ were the words running through her head as his hand let go of hers. He could feel her demeaning herself, even in the memory. 

It had horrified him. That same night that she had let slip the memory, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He had turned the vision over and over in his head. He understood why she interpreted his actions the way she had. How could she take it any other way? He was a low-life for not realizing it as it happened.

Once he understood how she’d taken it, memories of his own surfaced: other times he’d turned away from Nesta as soon as Mor showed up, instead rushing to the blonde’s side. 

Nesta couldn’t know he was scared of how Mor would react if he weren’t there to buffer between her and Azriel. If Mor thought he’d abandon her, who knew how she would react? Funny, how the two most important females in his life both had a tendency for self-destruction.

But Nesta didn’t know that; she had never seen Mor broken after what Eris and her own family did to her. Had never seen those bruises and abrasions, and her despair. How Mor had needed Cassian there, to stand between her and everyone else. He had been happy to do it. As an Illyrian bastard, lowest of the low, it had been his honor, his role to play in their circle.

So he admitted to himself that all the times he had pulled away from Nesta, there was fear in that action. He had been scared that Mor would think he had abandoned her. Scared that she and Azriel would hurt each other in their strange dance if he wasn’t there to mediate. Scared what Mor would do if she felt her safety was threatened.

And in failing to realize how his actions would impact his mate, he had failed her. Again.

Seeing Mor and Azriel now, seeing them talk like nothing was wrong, as if that line between them had never existed, that excuse started to crumble. And that made him realize there might be more behind it, reasons for pulling away that he was too scared to admit even to himself. But for Nesta’s sake, he had to. 

He acted like he embraced the circumstances of his birth. But seeing Mor, never failed to remind him of his youth. 

When everything happened with Eris, and Mor approached him, he had thought she wanted him for him. Thought she wanted him because he was a skilled warrior, and a good male. He had been young, naive, and an overcompensating hubris had roared through him. 

He realized soon enough why Mor had chosen to bed him. She had wanted to sully herself, and so had turned to him, a lesser Faerie bastard. 

No matter how complacent he pretended to be with his background, the memory always put a blanket over his senses. The understanding that she wanted him only to defile herself had wrecked him, dragging his already low self esteem in the dirt. 

He had thought he was over it. But now, looking at Mor as she listens to Feyre’s speech, he wonders if he will ever be over it.

He wasn’t enough then. He isn’t enough now.

How could he ever be good enough for Nesta?

During this last month he had tried telling Nesta his reasons. He wanted her to know that his actions had nothing to do with her. He sought her out after training, and when she locked herself in her room, he instead tried sending his feelings down the bond. He wanted to assure her that he was the one who messed up, that she was blameless. Every time, her mental walls were firmly in place, keeping him out, and Cassian cursed Amren for being a good teacher.

Feyre finishes her speech with a joke, and everyone laughs. Cassian does his best to laugh along. He hasn’t heard a word. All he knows is that Nesta needs to understand all this. 

The doors to the garden open up, and the guests all swell toward the gentle breezes and flowering scents of the garden. Mor and Azriel turn to join them, but Cassian has had enough. He’s finding Nesta. Now. He needs to tell her.

He runs up the stairs to get to the bedrooms, dodging a surprised Rhys and Feyre who are walking down to join their guests. He can feel Rhys fleeting inquiry in his mind, but he ignores it, instead heading down the corridor.

They all have a bedroom in the estate. His is next to Azriel’s at the end of the corridor, but he takes left, to the guest rooms. That’s where Feyre put Nesta away, as if she’s not as much a part of this family as any of them.

He opens every door in the long corridor. Behind all of them are plush beds. Velvety drapes mostly cover the windows. No Nesta. He tries the bond again, and this time, as he pulls at it gently, it flickers back. 

The flicker comes from the garden, so he enters through the door he just opened. The guest room is dark, only lit up by the faelights outside. He pushes aside the drapes from the window, and it takes him only a second to spot her. She stands by the river, where he and Azriel stood before. She’s talking to Amren and Varian. Are the two females mending their relationship? Tarquin stands beside the three of them, smiling at them, appreciatively eyeing Nesta.

She’s in a deep purple gown that shifts toward scarlet in the yellow light. Her hair is braided in a crown on the top of her head, baring her neck and collarbones. Over her shoulder is a shawl to shield against the cold and she carries herself regally, as always. 

Something flutters in Cassian's stomach. He wants to bury his nose in the crook between her neck and shoulder, sniff her in. Her scent is a high for him, especially since the bond snapped in place.

Even standing here, so far away that he barely can see her facial expression, something inside him dislodges. He wants to bring her somewhere they can be alone to talk. And then, when she’s forgiven him, he wants to take her in his arms and make her feel good. Heat rises in him, making him grip the window frame hard. The bond thrums like a tightened string.

Then Tarquin bends down to Nesta to say something, and extends his arm. She takes it and follows him to the dance area. There is soft music playing, and together they start a waltz. A human dance. Where did the High Lord of the Summer Court learn to waltz?

Bile rises in Cassian’s throat, and all that blood in his head pumps furiously. What does Tarquin think he’s doing? His hands are on her waist, holding her close, and they look at each other like they’re enjoying themselves. Cassian’s vision gets blurry. A rumble starts in the back of his throat. He throws open the window, ready to fly down there to challenge Tarquin, to claim Nesta as his, to … 

A soft humming escapes down the bond. 

She’s pleased, enough that she can’t contain it. It quells whatever impulse is getting the better of him. A raspy breath escapes him. His stomach rolls, he’s feeling sick. 

She doesn’t need him. He should be happy that she’s improved this much, that her glares have regained their bite, that she can enjoy something as simple as a dance. But the bond chafes at him. 

He knows bonds aren’t necessarily right, that they can just as often be a shot in the dark, binding together two individuals who as a pair become destructive. But that’s not the case with them. Nesta makes him a better male. She awakens a fire in him that supersedes all his doubts and self-hate, even before she was Made. But she doesn’t need him, she never has.

He can’t look anymore. He turns back in the room and plops down on a lavish settee, his wings spreading behind him. He tries to clear his throat, but it does nothing to chase away the rising ache. 

How fate has played him. Flinging Nesta in his path, forging that bond between them. Dangling before his nose that sweet fire, the same that runs in his veins. As if they were two sides of the same coin. 

As if he could ever be worthy of her.

He sees her before his mind’s eye -- her dainty beauty, her fragile stature. Before everything happened, she was made for a life of safety and lavishness. Dancing ballroom dances, lying in bed reading until noon. That’s what he wants for her. He can’t give that to her.

He’s the lord of bloodshed, a lowborn bastard lesser Faerie, good for nothing but battle and keeping his High Lord’s armies in check. He knows this, deep down.

He takes deep breaths, but still can’t get enough air. His heart bangs in his chest. His fingers are starting to tingle and grow numb, as if he’s been out in the cold for too long. The wings cramp uncontrollably behind him. What’s happening? A dizziness is descending, and he’s vaguely aware he’s slid off the chaise and stands on his knees on the cushy carpet.

He’s dying. He’ll suffocate. He claws at his throat.

_“What’s going on, Cassian?”_

The words sound far away, as though spoken through a glass pane, but Nesta’s eyes meet his straight on. She’s on her knees too, her phantom touch to his shoulder loving. It has to be delusion, because Nesta is out on the grass, sharing a moment with the High Lord of Summer. It has to be a delusion, because the Nesta he knows would never touch him like that. Softly, as if he were something breakable, something she cared about. 

But the hallucination helps. He counts the freckles speckled over her nose and cheekbones, and the ghost of her hand on his shoulder grounds him. Slowly he finds his way back. His breathing slows, a pressure over his eyes, that he didn’t even realize was there, alleviates.

How long has it been? It feels like he’s been sitting on the carpeted floor only seconds, but at the same time, hours.

Strange. Now that he’s returning to normal, she’s still there. Her blue-grey eyes as piercing as ever. But it’s not her usual hard stare. There’s a nurturing warmth to it that thaws his insides.

_“How are you?”_

Her voice soothes the calamity in his head. He feels a tug at his ribs, like she’s pulling on the bond. It’s a gentle caress over his insides. Her fiery scent enters his head, calming him. As he returns to a lucid state he realizes she’s actually there. 

His hand trembles as he lifts it to her cheek and feels her skin under his fingertips.

“Nesta”, he whispers, knowing what he has to do. She needs to know. No matter if she rejects him in the end, she has to know.

“I’m here”, she says.

Cassian tries to form the words. He tries to tell her everything he’s wanted to tell her over the past month, but his vocal cords won’t cooperate.

Nesta seems to understand. She puts her hand over his, where it caresses her cheek. “Show me”, she says.

Again he feels that tug on his ribs. He gasps. As he gropes at that tether he recognizes that her walls are completely down. If he wanted to, he could step through the bond, inside her bubble, see all of her. Understand her. Know how she feels about him. All she’s been keeping inside.

He wouldn’t break her faith like that. Instead, he loosens the restraints he’s had on his feelings. The memories, and the thoughts that go with them, all tumble forth. It starts as a rumbling in the back of his head, but soon they all well through the bond like an avalanche. He grasps at the images and thoughts as they pass, scared to overwhelm her, but it’s like grabbing air. 

Her eyes have widened, and she sits back on her heels.

He sees the memory at the same time with her. It’s the same memory she shared with him, but this time, it’s from his perspective, standing with her in the war-camp in the south of Prythian. 

_He grabs her fingers in his good hand, savouring the feeling of her warmth. He thanks her for the bandage around his wrist. Her gaze meets his, a subdued fire burning there. He could stare into that fire forever, doesn’t care if he loses himself and never makes it out. He can’t stand a moment more of this awkward dance._

_He brushes his thumb over the back of her hand, the skin smooth and hot, it’s like sparks of static where they touch. He's plucked bare under her gaze; those grey eyes, looking deep into him, seeing him for who he really is. Their fire burning in him, over that link between them._

_She opens her mouth to speak._

_“You’re hurt?”_

_At the sound of Mor’s voice, every instinct in Cassian wins a battle he wasn’t aware of; before he knows it, he has retracted his hand from Nesta’s. His fingers immediately smart where they miss her touch, and the absence pulses deep inside him. But intermingled with the pulsing is that piece of shame he always carries with him, what he always is reminded of at seeing Mor._

_He would never be enough. Not for Mor, not for Nesta, not for anyone._

She gasps, her eyes opening wide as the memory hits her. As she realizes what went through his mind that time.

Her piercing sadness trembles back to him over the bond. If that’s what it’s felt like for her over the last month, being hit with his own bouts of grief, he understands why she’s avoided him. The sadness rumbles over him, as painful as if it were his own, or maybe even more. The bond puts him on high alert, preparing him to crush whatever threats her. Rage quivers under his skin like maggots, his wings flare. The impulse is almost impossible to contain. Whatever is causing her to feel like this, he has to find, and butcher. He has to --

“Cassian ...” she murmurs. 

The eruption is instantly thwarted at her utterance. Her fingers curl over the back of his hand, her nails digging in. The stinging feels good, a reminder that she’s really there. She’s here, with him.

His grief and self-hatred still flood over the bond, gust after gust of storm born emotion, all he’s held inside for too long. She doesn’t flinch, or draw back, even if he can feel her answering anguish. How can she stand it? How can she still meet his gaze with that unwavering determination? How come his sadness and conflicting emotions don’t overwhelm her?

At that, Nesta’s lips break apart in a wicked smile. “I survived the Cauldron. What makes you think I’d break under your misery?”

Her grin catches him off guard. He can’t remember the last time he saw her smile like that. Has she ever? 

Just like that, the flood of emotion is over. In its wake, the bond is sturdy and thick, like an iron bridge between them, an extra limb binding them together. He can feel her heart thump steadily through it. Her thoughts are vague contours brushing against his own. He can’t explain it. And now that the torrent has stilled, a tender, caring feeling snakes over the bond and coils itself around his mind. It feels like being hugged tightly, or drinking hot broth.

It’s so soft, so loving that his throat starts to ache. He doesn’t deserve it.

She moves closer, and her hands loop around his midriff in an actual hug. The angle forces his hand away from her cheek, and instead he winds it at the nape of her neck, draping the other over her back. She’s so soft, the skin like velvet.

“Cassian”, she murmurs against his chest, and he understands why she got closer: so that he can’t look her in the eyes as she speaks. The words are vulnerable, but without hesitation, and rigid like steel. “You’re good”, she says.

She sends an image. It’s short, only a flash. 

_They’re standing at the work table in Rhysand’s war tent, before the real battle against Hybern began. They are all there, the High Lords, Elain, the General, and herself._

_The General looks better today. His cheeks flushed, that blazing aura back. He’s partaking in the conversation, his eyes flitting over the work table where small figurines take the place of each army. She only has eyes for him._

_The High Lord with the golden crown -- Helion, she thinks his name might be -- says something which makes the Faeries around the table all flinch. Everyone, except for Cassian._

_Cassian turns his head and looks straight into her eyes, making something in her chest constrict, as he says: “Good. If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.”_

There’s a rosy shimmer over the memory, one he didn’t think Nesta Archeron’s mind was capable of.

She thinks of him that way? 

That ache in his chest intensifies, spreading, but she doesn’t let go, even as he clears his throat over and over. Slowly, the feeling fades. 

They stay that way for a long time, her face pressed against his torso, and her fingers gliding over the muscles in his back. It calms him in a way he never knew was possible. He can almost forget the rest of the world. The Illyrian uprising, the injustices and the threat of the human queens. They are all leaves being washed into the ocean by the Sidra.

From the open window comes the sounds of laughter and music. The party is still going on; the merriment and the making acquaintances continuing regardless of what has happened here, in this tucked away corner of the estate.

“Thank you”, Cassian finally says, reluctantly extricating his hands from her and drawing back. 

It’s not right to keep her from the party, from her chance at redemption. His throat has cleared up, and whatever attack came over him earlier is a memory he decides to banish to a far-away corner of his mind.

She looks up at him, examining his face for any of that lingering panic. But he’s collected now, having gotten to explain himself. She hasn’t rejected the bond yet, so it’s fruitless to mourn it already. And she’s still here, that must mean something.

He doesn’t dare hope though, as they both get to their feet and awkwardly stare down at the carpet, avoiding looking at each other.

Her shawl has fallen sometime during all of this, and it lies forgotten in a heap on the floor. Cassian leans down to pick it up, and hands it to her.

He gets a curt “thank you” back, and she turns her back to him as she arranges it over her shoulders. Then she extends her hand.

“We should go back down”, she says. 

“We should”, he agrees.

Her hand is stretched out at him. What does she want him to do? He looks at it, not comprehending.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, reaching in to grab his hand in hers. Then she turns for the door. It’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other and follow her out. Her fingers in his are a beacon, warming him throughout.

As they get to the gallery, facing the door that leads out into the garden, she hesitates. He sees the question in her face: maybe he doesn’t want to be seen with her. Should she let go of his hand? 

He squares his jaw and squeezes her fingers, keeping a tight grip. This time, it’s him leading the way out onto the lawn. 

No one notices them at first, everyone busy talking and sipping from the glasses of bubbling wine served at the tables of refreshments. Those tables are the direction Nesta steers him, and he submits. They take a short cut over the dance floor, dodging dancing couples. They’re nearly felled by Amren and Varian who twirl around each other in a wild dance.

As they reach the other side, Cassian spots Mor talking to Tarquin, only a short distance away. He freezes, and Nesta instantly follows his gaze. She halts, tensing up beside him. Oh no.

Mor seems to feel their eyes on her back; she turns around and looks Cassian and Nesta up and down. Her eyebrows are high on her forehead as she spots their intertwined hands.

Nesta starts to withdraw her fingers, but Cassian won’t have it. He squeezes tighter, trying to send calming pulses down the bond. It feels wrong, too intimate to use the bond like this, when they’re not even mated, but he’s afraid Nesta will bolt. Despite the moment they just shared, he knows she is slow to forgive. And he’s been letting Nesta down for too long when it comes to Mor. 

Besides that, he knows there’s more between Nesta and Mor than either of them lets on. 

The pulses seem to help. Nesta’s back is still stiff as a pine tree, but her hand relaxes in his.

Mor walks toward them, Tarquin following behind. The High Lord’s face is impossible to read, but as he gets closer, Cassian catches a waft of Nesta off the High Lord. The image from before, Nesta snugly nested in the High Lords arms, invades him. 

Cassian’s breathing thickens, every breath a struggle against the wrath that hits him. 

But Nesta’s fingers press harder against his. It calls off the rage. No matter what happened before, she’s here with him now. And for every step Mor takes toward them, Nesta’s face turns into an empty, unreadable sheet of vellum. No matter how Nesta’s past might haunt him, she needs him now.

Mor smiles at the two of them. It’s a sweet, disarming smile, but Cassian sees through it. He knows her too well.

“Where have you two been?” she asks. Her tone is light, but there is a silent demand behind the question, aimed at Nesta.

Nesta says nothing, so Cassian steps in. 

“Up at the house. She hasn’t seen all of it yet, so I showed her around.” The lie rolls off his tongue as easy as flying.

“Really?” Mor laughs. “Well, I only ask because of how she ran away as she did before. Leaving poor Tarquin in the middle of the dance. I wonder what our guests thought of such behaviour.”

Cassian scowls at her words. He knows she’s trying to get under Nesta’s skin, to push the emissary away from him. Out of jealousy or to protect him, Cassian doesn’t know, and as his mate tenses beside him, he doesn’t care. He’s had enough.

“I don’t give a fuck what our guests think, and neither should you.” 

The words come out with a growl, and his wings flare behind him, to emphasize his point. He can feel the surprise on Mor and Nesta both, billowing off them like clouds. Tarquin stands behind Mor, and he lays a hand on her shoulder, warding off a potential quarrel.

“Let’s go”, he says. “I’ll introduce you to some of our most prolific tradespeople. Your High Lady quite enjoyed their fish when she visited Adriata.”

It’s such an everyday comment, as if none of the sharp words between Mor and Cassian matters, that Mor doesn’t have a comeback. She lets Tarquin lead her away through the crowd. The merchant guests all parts to let the High Lord through.

Cassian sighs, relieved. With the tension eased, he turns to Nesta. She won’t meet his eyes, instead following Mor closely. The corner of Nesta’s lips point down, a frown on her face from the near-altercation. Maybe she’s looking at Tarquin, too. Before the possessive streak of the bond claims him, something Mor said strikes him. 

“You left Tarquin on the dance floor?”

She shrugs her shoulders, finally turning to him. “I felt you. When you get like that, your feelings just take over. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.” Then, as an afterthought: “You really need some lessons from Amren if we’re going to do this.”

He’s stunned. Nesta felt his panic and abandoned everything. She came to him, because he needed someone. His throat clenches. He really doesn’t deserve her.

Then the last part of her sentence sinks in. “What do you mean, _if we’re going to do this_? Do what?”

She doesn’t answer, but instead drags him the last couple of steps over to the table of refreshments. Without letting go of his hand she reaches out and pulls a grape of the stem, where it lays on an ornate serving platter. What is she doing?

“Open up”, she tells him, and without thinking he opens his mouth, allowing her to pop in the fruit. As he bites down, and the sweetness spreads over his tongue, his head feels empty. Why isn’t she answering his question? Do _what_?

He swallows, searching her face for her meaning. And he snags at her raised eyebrows. She nods to the fruit platter.

Her voice is sharp. “Do you understand yet, you oversized bat?”

Cassian gapes. Is she …? Does she mean …? His heart beats so fast he thinks it might escape his chest. His fingers in hers are clammy, and his brain must have been replaced with cotton while he wasn’t paying attention. She’s accepting the bond?

He opens his mouth to speak. He’s not sure what he wants to say, but he knows the words that come out aren’t it:

“I don’t think a grape counts as making me food.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, in that case …” she says and turns around to leave.

“No, wait!” Cassian snaps out of whatever trance he’s been in, his breath coming out in short bursts as he pulls her back to him. It can’t be happening. It can’t be real. But there she is, right in front of him. And as he traces the bond, she reaches back for him through it, grasping a claw around that kernel of him, to drag him inside her walls.

Her blue-gray eyes bore into him. Her skin is bright, as if lit from within, and then there’s that ethereal beauty that hits him like a spear through his heart.

As he takes in another deep breath, her scent hits him. Something is different. Her scent, usually sharp and spicy, has been perforated with a musky tang, which fills his nostrils, going to his head. 

His thoughts all scatter as he realizes that the musk is him. His scent is on her, and not in that superficial way, like her scent lingered on Tarquin after the dance, but in a deep, pervasive way. In that way which tells the entire world they belong together.

That’s what does it. He snaps. One second they’re an arms length apart, the next his mouth is on hers. A low growl shakes his chest as she kisses him back, her arms encircling his neck to rest in his hair. He can’t get close enough, pulling her to him, breathing her in like a drowning man, drunk on that scent. 

A fire has started in his groin from the proximity. As their tongues clash, so do their minds. She has let him through every mental shield she has in place, and he can see all of her. 

She pulls back to breathe, her chest pushing against him with every pant. He can scent on her that she’s just as aroused as he is. He goes in for more, but she stretches her neck away from him.

“Not here”, she whispers. The words are barely audible, because she is as breathless as he is.

And just like that, he realizes they still stand in the middle of the party, dozens of pairs of eyes ogling them. The two of them block the food table, and as his wings flare outward with excitement, they catch the attention of anyone who hasn't already seen them.

It’s not that he’s embarrassed, far from it. He wants everyone to know he and Nesta belong to each other, but judging by her heaving breath, and the straining in his pants, this is heading somewhere not fit for an audience. 

He looks to the estate, where his room faces the opposite side, out to the street. But he won’t spend this time with Nesta in a place where she has no room of her own. And definitely not somewhere where her sisters will come prying. So where can they go?

Nesta looks around too, as if the same thought has struck her. She purses her lips, the way she always does when she is thinking. 

“The House of Winds”, she says simply.

Not a bad alternative, as choices go. He marvels at how fast she comes to the perfect solution. His mate is exceptional.

But as he turns it over in his mind, amazed at how he still can ponder these things, he wonders when she last visited the House of Wind. Has she been there since that time Rhys carried her down, when she moved into the town house? Cassian knows she hasn’t flown since that time; she always refuses and bullies anyone who even suggests taking her into the air.

There are stairs leading all the way up to the mountain house, but walking up would take forever. Judging by the mating frenzy rising and devouring more of his mind for every passing second, he doesn’t have forever. And he certainly isn’t about to let Rhys or Az touch her right now, otherwise one of them could have winnowed her up. Although, explaining why they wanted to go up to the House of Wind at this time of night might be an awkward conversation.

Her entire back stiffens into a pillar as the same thought hits her. How would they get up there? Even the idea of flying is appalling to her. If it wasn’t so sad Cassian would laugh with the irony of it all. An Illyrian mated to someone who hates flying.

The stairs it is, then.

Just as he’s resigned himself to climbing, she presses close to him, resting both hands on his chest and mumbles: “Just … do it.”

What did she mean? Did she want him to …? He tries to gauge her expression, but her eyes are scrunched together in … anticipation?

“Did I mumble?” she says again, louder this time. She still won’t open her eyes, and he smells a whiff of trepidation rolling off her, but the impulse she sends down the bond is one of trust. _Go_ , it says. _Fly me there._

She did actually mumble, but he thinks it unwise to comment on that. Instead, he spreads his wings, grasps her tightly and lifts to the skies before she can change her mind.

A murmur travels over the crowd as he flaps to find a wind current to raise them. He goes slowly, but the gusts pull and push on Nesta’s substantial skirt, so he makes sure to clamp down the fabric over her thighs. Flying with a skirt is hopeless business. 

Still, he’s determined to enjoy this short moment, swooshing through the air with Nesta in his arms. Who knows if she’ll let him take her again. He finds a rising air stream that lifts them high, until all of Velaris is visible. The town is even more beautiful from above. The stars twinkle in the river, and reflect off of rooftops. 

Nesta’s eyelids are screwed shut the entire flight, and Cassian doesn’t dawdle. Not just because she can’t wait to land and he doesn’t want to prolong her discomfort, but the heat is going to his head. Every intake of breath ushers her utterly Nesta smell to invade his senses, spurring the frenzy that’s been building in him for so long. Ever since the first time he met her.

He lands on the balcony connected to his room, but doesn’t set her down immediately. Instead, he waits while she realizes they’ve come to a stop, and cracks open her eyes.

Her braided hairstyle has come loose in the wind, and tresses fall down over her shoulders. As she turns to look over Velaris, the locks swivel slightly, and her smell hits him like a blow to the stomach. She’s his mate, and she has accepted the bond.

“That wasn’t … half bad”, she says slowly, while drawing away from him. “Next time I might even look.”

He starts. “Next time?” he repeats, disbelieving.

She turns to him, a sly smile on her lips. “You heard me.” 

His heart swells. She’s his mate, and sharing the freedom of flying with her is something he’s wanted for so long. He’s too happy.

“Well”, she says, interrupting his thoughts. She puts a hand on his chest and raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Enough talking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wanted one more chapter, but as I wrote the ending of this, I realized it didn't work with Cassian's perspective. Therefore, I break it here. Next chapter will be pure smut, from Nesta's POV.


	3. The aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut

The view from the House of Winds is mesmerizing. 

The last time Nesta was here was right after being made Fae. At that time, she hadn’t been able to think straight, her anger at the injustice of it all overtaking her, plaguing her. She had shut herself in her room or the library, refusing to talk to anyone other than Elain. Especially, she had ignored a certain Illyrian warrior, who now stands beside her, his hands around her waist. 

She remembers an image he sent her down the bond that night the bond snapped in place. He had seen them standing together on a balcony -- maybe even this one? -- looking at the shooting stars in the night sky, the dim lights of Velaris below. At that time the image had felt so distant. Was all that really just a month ago?

The city shines in the night, and down there, she can spot the Sidra. The faelights and the stars above reflect in its waters, catching her eye as its water carries the spots of light toward the sea.

When she lived in Velaris, those months after the war, she hated the city; its hustle and bustle, the sheltered Fae who had hardly even experienced a bad thing in their lives, and how each and every one took note of her every time she went outside. There is no anonymity in this town. To be fair, in their small village in the human lands she hadn’t exactly been nameless either, but here, everyone bows to her, or ducks out of the way. Scared of what she might do to them with that power granted her by the Cauldron. She can’t hide from who she is, what she has been through. It is all public knowledge.

Now, as she turns in Cassian's arms, his hand gently resting on her waist, she takes the time to admire it all. She tastes the brine on her tongue, and a sweet aftertaste she thinks might be lemon. 

She is still a little queasy from the flight, but the view up here … If the view is always like this when flying, she can get used to the wind gusts pulling her this way and that.

“That wasn’t … half bad”, she says, drawing away from Cassian’s arms to lean over the railing. “Next time I might even look.” 

“Next time?” she hears him repeat. That’s awe in his voice, and incredulity. The bond shivers, like he’s so happy he can’t contain it. And that quiver to his voice, waking something in her core. The smell of him bores into her nostrils, demanding her attention.

So she turns to him, smiling coyly. “You heard me.” He doesn’t say anything, just grins with a smile from ear to ear, it’s adorable. Something in Nesta’s chest breaks, and the heat in her core flares up in a blaze, carrying her away like an ember on the wind, so she puts a hand on his chiseled torso and raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Well”, she says. “Enough talking.”

She snakes her arms over his shoulders, and locks her hands behind his neck. He hardly breathes. Slowly she reaches up on her tip-toes, but before she can brush her lips against his, he bows his head. He puts his mouth on her throat, brushing against that same piece of skin he kissed one of their first times meeting. She can’t hold back a gasp as pleasure thunders through her, and his satisfied possessive maleness sneaks down the bond. 

She wants him. Her warming insides push her to close that last small gap between them, but she holds back, savouring his touch on her skin. She crooks her neck back, to give him better access, and tangles one hand in his wild hair, and pushes him closer as he laves up and down her throat, his hot lips and tongue staking their claim.

He growls as he marks her, and she can feel the rumbling everywhere they touch. She’s tiny, so fragile in his firm grip, yet she feels completely safe. His calloused fingers move nimbly and with self-assurance over her back. She can imagine what those fingers can do to other parts of her. 

She lets out a moan. “Cassian”, she says, wanting him closer. His name tumbles over her lips, exposing her want. She pushes against him, feeling his hardness against her stomach. He throbs.

She drags her nails over his scalp, desperate for a tighter hold. The tenderness and vulnerability still feel wrong, but this is Cassian in her arms. It’s what she has wanted for so long. He’s her mate.

He doesn’t give in, like she expects, instead he continues his exploration of her throat and collarbones, his broad hand stroking calming caresses over her arms and shoulder blades.

In the back of her head she realizes that if this were before, before the Illyrian mountains, or even a couple of hours ago, this lovemaking would have been decidedly too soft. But the moment she saw inside his head, something inside her shifted. She saw how he was breaking. She saw his hopes and fears, and in that moment, she would have turned the world on its side for him.

But it’s still too slow. She wants him now, sends shower after shower of her need through the bond, showing him how much she wants him. But while she can feel him smile against her skin, he doesn’t hurry. 

He mumbles against her throat: “We have time.”

That promise breaks her. He’ll take his time, she knows. He wants to feast and explore every inch of her. As she wants to do with him. Her heart shatters, over and over at the memory from that battlefield, but he’s right. They have time, and at some point they will go slow, but she’s done waiting, done dancing around each other. She pulls away from him, enough to look him in the eyes as she answers what she knows will break his resolve:

“You found me.”

Understanding glistens in his hazel orbs, and down the bond there’s a strong pulse of what she can only explain as love. It’s warm, and inches its way through every part of her body. He lifts her in his arms, like she’s a down feather, and heads for the door behind them.

He somehow manages to open the door without her help, and despite herself, despite the heat in her core, she looks around, curious. She’s seen Cassian’s room in the Illyrian mountains, been in it countless times, but this place is new to her.

The faelights are extinguished, but there is enough light coming in from the balcony to see. The room is sparingly decorated: a plush bed by one wall. In the corner, a writing desk with a few documents set to the side, and against the other wall, a chest. He has a similar one in Illyria, and she knows that’s where he keeps his armor. 

He sets her down, suddenly a sheepish smile on his lips. “I know it’s not much”, he says.

“Hush”, she answers, her voice coming out gravelly from desire. That heat pooling in her stomach compels her to stand on her toes, and before he can speak again, she crashes her mouth to his. 

He parts his lips at her request, and their tongues meet. She shoves the shawl off her shoulders, it’s just in the way, and it’s too hot in here, anyway, and starts tugging on the fastenings of his leather jacket, desperate for the feel of his skin on hers.

He draws a shaky breath. His rough hands meanwhile go up and down her arms, and he nuzzles his nose in her hair, breathing her in. His own musk is strong in her nose, scrambling her brain.

He has to help her with the slits in the back of the jacket, but then she pushes the garment off his shoulders, and just stands back to take him in, letting her fingertips run over the hills and divots of his torso. His skin is hot, the muscle like steel, the way his hazel eyes follow her makes her shiver. Like he sees through her, every fault and flaw in her soul, and still, he idolizes her.

Last time was fast, she didn’t have time to admire his tattoos. Despite the throbbing inside her, she’s decided to, this time. She traces the lines that coil in artful shapes over his torso. As her finger dips low, over the v leading down his pants, she notices the bulge there. For a second, she’s breathless, remembering the last time they were this close. When the bond snapped.

He remembers too, judging by the way a tremor travels over his skin.

She needs his skin on hers, now. “Help me out of this thing”, she begs. She turns so he can reach the row of dress hooks holding her bodice together. With his nimble fingers the fabrics detach quickly. The gown falls over her hips, and pools on the floor. He attacks her stays and shift with the same ardor. They soon join the overdress in a pile by her feet.

The clothing has been provided to her by Feyre, and her underthings are white and lacy. Not the kind of things she would choose for herself, but now she’s thankful. From how he takes a shaky breath, she can tell he likes what he sees.

“Nesta …” The word is only a mutter falling from his lips, but it sets her on fire. She falls into him, her mouth on his, and skin rubs against skin. She sighs at his hard angles pressing into her. He nibbles on her lower lip, and a hand finds its way to caress her backside, the other makes its home in her hair.

The flight has been hard on Nuala’s excellent handiwork, and her tresses fall around her in disarray. His fingers patiently find and take out every pin remaining. Then he combs through the hair, not softly, but gently. Meanwhile, she finds the buttons of his pants and pops them open one by one. She brushes against his length and he moans into her mouth. Before he has time to protest, she falls to her knees and tug his pants over his hips.

He hisses as she takes his hardness in her hand. 

It’s not that she hasn’t done this before. Several of the males she bedded before going to the mountains would guide her to get them off with only her hands. But this is the first time she’s wanted to do it, all on her own, not in some wicked battle of who can take more. She floats her hand up and down over the velvety skin, glutting herself on his groans. His wings flare behind him and he reaches for something to steady him. She takes his hand and guides it to her shoulder. He squeezes gently. She looks up and sees he has closed his eyes.

She returns to the top of his length and slides her thumb over the slit. She smears the precum around, helping her fingers glide even as she takes a harder grip. His answering grunt stokes the fire in her. 

She realizes she wants to take him in her mouth. This concept isn’t new to her, either, but she’s never much enjoyed it before, so the insight surprises her. But the flesh looks inviting, and she wants to know if it tastes as good as the rest of him, so she licks the underside all the way to the tip.

His eyes open wide at that. 

“Nest-”, he croaks, cutting himself off with a gasp as she takes that tip in her mouth. His hand on her shoulder grips hard. She smiles around him, satisfied with the bouts of bliss she can feel radiating from him through the bond. She swirls her tongue around the sensitive skin, while holding him still with her hand at the base.

She takes her time, thoroughly tasting him. It’s a bitter saltiness, with a tinge of the musk that’s uniquely him. She takes him deeper, to taste more, and he whelps and pulls back. 

“Sweetheart, no.”

She lets go, and he puts a hand under her chin to help her rise, kissing her deeply, but not before she has time to feel a disappointing sting. Did she do something wrong?

These open walls in their minds, him hearing her every thought, will be the end of her, because he shakes his head in answer to her speculation. His voice is soft as he says: “You’re perfect.” 

Still, embarrassment stings her cheeks at the vulnerability she’s shown, at being turned down.

“You’re too good, actually”, he offers. “If you keep going, I will lose it.”

That, she can understand. She’s close, too. The passion is shared between them, and somehow that intensifies the feeling.

A memory flies by, of their second meeting. They were in her room in their father’s estate in the human lands, Cassian arriving to deliver a letter. He had her pinned against the fireplace, having just evaded the attack of her knee to his scrotum. He had said something interesting. 

She cackles. “I thought you told me that if I played with you, you’d teach me more interesting ways to bring a male to his knees? And now you stop me?”

His eyes darken as he too remembers. “Did I say that?” His voice is guttural, merely a growl. “Then I better make good on my promise.”

She wants to ask him what he means, but before she has time to form the words, he has lifted her and strides to the bed, where he sends her tumbling into the sheets. Then, he launches on her.

He weighs her down, kissing her and grinding his body against hers. His hardness is a stark contrast to the soft duvet against her back. She claws at him, tries to reach his wings, which flare behind him, but he pulls them out of reach.

“My turn”, he admonishes, a mischievous smile curling on his face.

He kisses his way down to her breasts, grasping one and kneading it gently. The other, he worships with his mouth. Kissing lightly around the areola, then taking the nipple in his mouth. Nesta can only writhe and gasp, the sensation building in her rapidly, as he laps and sucks and kisses.

“These are perfect”, he breathes as he comes up for air, squeezing a breast for emphasis.

“Cassian”, she can only moan. 

He’s perfect, his tongue darting out to encircle a nipple. Then, without breaking eye contact, he crawls backward on the bed. She’s painfully aware of him, knows what he is about to do. He tried it the last time, and then she stopped him. As he licked her, the softness had been overbearing, the vulnerability grating her. 

She has never allowed it before. Some of the males she has bedded have tried, and every time, she would distract them, catch them off guard and then ride them into the mattress until she found her measure of pain and pleasure. But there would be no distracting Cassian from this, she can see on the way his sharp eyes hone in on her. And to her surprise, she doesn’t want to. Her core longs for his touch. She squirms, can’t take her eyes off him as he leans down to tug off the last bit of lace that covers her. Those dark locks falling down and framing his face as he parts her legs. He starts on the inside of her thigh, kissing the skin, licking it in slow, patient pats, until she hisses at his teasing. She grabs at the sheets and buckles, which only makes him chuckle softly. 

“None of that”, he says, and with a broad hand pins her hips to the mattress. His thumb rests on her mound, close to where she wants him. But he’s not in a hurry. He lies down on his stomach, and lifts one of her legs over his shoulders. He shifts his wings so she can’t accidentally kick them, and settles in.

Slowly he works his way inward. “Ah!” she yelps when his nose finally nestles against her folds, sniffing her.

His eyes meet hers, a glassy sheen of lust covering his eyes. The pupils have dilated, the hazel nearly gone. His mouth is set in a self-satisfied grin.

With the hand that isn’t fixing her to the bed, he parts her folds, glancing longingly over them as if unsure of where to start. Then, he seems to decide, and licks a long stripe. He stops just short of her pearl. Her insides are starting to pound from the teasing, and she lets out a sob.

“Cassian, please.”

He listens. Maybe he can feel the pressure that builds in her, that undulating wave, threatening to crash into her, to completely take over. Because he makes only a short detour encircling her entrance with that sinful tongue, before drawing her nub in his mouth, and inserting a finger into her slick heat.

She cries out.

He pumps a couple of times before inserting another finger, and curls them to hit something deep inside. Her back arches against her will. He works her hard, seeming to know exactly what actions will bring her most pleasure. His tongue is relentless in its lapping and flicking and swirling over her swollen flesh, and she thinks she will break, she will --

His fingers hit that spot inside her again, rubbing against it for good measure, and the fire inside her explodes. She lets out a shout, her legs tremble as they clench both sides of Cassian’s head, and in the aftermath, she pants, struggling to get air fast enough. She stares at the ceiling while fighting to regain composure. She slowly realizes her fingers are cramping against the silken bedsheet, so she softens her grip.

Meanwhile Cassian plods down on his side next to her, dragging the back of his hand over his lips before he leans in to kiss her. His smile is self-assured, the black pinpoints of his eyes fluttering over her body. She can taste herself on him. 

Her romance novels have taught her of the neverending lust in the weeks or months after accepting a bond. She hadn’t quite believed it, but his calloused fingers fondle her shoulders, and just like that, feeling his warmth against her, the desire is back.

Nesta rolls over on her side to nuzzle against him, desperate for his skin and mouth.

His hair is tousled after the flight. She runs her fingers through it, and they snag at the tangles throughout.

He chuckles. “I usually bind it if I know I’m going to fly.”

“I’m sorry about the surprise.”

“ _Never_ apologize for surprising me. Only imagine how dull life would be if we always knew what was coming.”

Interesting. “Is that so?” Nesta says and reaches down.

Cassian just barely holds back a howl of surprise as she grabs his balls. 

“You hellion!” he yelps, but she only laughs.

The skin is velveteen, but stretched taut. She clutches them, softly rolling her fingers over them. “I thought you liked surprises?”

His gaze roves over her, that untamed sparkle turning savage, like he’s a hunter, and she’s prey. She enjoys this game.

She pushes him back on the bed, and straddles him. For a second she’s nervous he won’t like her initiative, but he growls, and she can feel his approval down the bond. She pauses to allow him to adjust his position, tucking his wings in, before she collides her lips with his. She takes him in hand and guides him to her entrance. Then, with a moan, she sinks down.

They both gasp. The sensation of him filling her leaves her breathless. His hands find her cheeks, pulling her to him, kissing her senseless. She can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of him. 

She grinds, starting slow, but soon that inner fire takes over. She heaves up and down, taking her pleasure, and finding something more: It’s intimate in a way she’s never experienced before. Even last time, as the bond settled into place, she had felt disconnected from reality, as though she were in her own bubble. But now, it’s not just their bodies connecting. She’s painfully aware of him. Every breath, every heartbeat vibrates over the bond, it’s as real and tangible as her own pulse. She’s close now.

He meets her for every thrust. Fast. Hard.

“I --”, she tries, but it comes out as a groan.

At the same time he hisses her name

She finds her release. 

Her thighs give out, spent, and she’s thankful when he rolls them over. He keeps going, guiding her through her peak. He’s not far behind, his finishing thrusts intense as he chases his climax. 

As he grunts his pleasure, his wings quiver behind him, his eyes scrunched shut. Beat after beat of bliss ripples over the bond, and she embraces the feelings, reaches out and catches them one after one. Cradling them, collecting them in a deep corner of her mind.

He tumbles over her, resting his head on her chest, and she closes her arms over his shoulders. The wings splay out on either side, utterly relaxed, and he tangles their legs together. She’s painfully aware of every point of contact.

Both of their panting cleaves the silence. She doesn’t dare move, for fear of disturbing the euphoria that’s spreading in her chest. 

Then:

“I love you.”

His words are barely whispered, just an exhalation against her chest, but she hears him. The words hit her like a tidal wave, and she’s stunned. Warmth blooms in her, expanding through her, like the watercolor Feyre uses.

“I --”, she says, stumbling.

He draws up on his elbow and looks her in the eyes. His pupils have returned to normal size, the hazel rounds once again flickering over her. 

He repeats: “I love you”, then swallows. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

Her chest aches. Happiness bubbles under the skin. “I --”, she tries again, but her throat closes up. She’s going to cry. 

How long has it been since anyone said that to her? Proud, conceited Nesta Archeron. Beautiful and fuckable, yes, but unlovable.

Cassian sits up and pulls her into his arms. He tuts, a sound that’s almost jarring coming from him. His voice that commands armies, so soft. His arms and wings ensconce her, and through the bond there’s a gentle tendril as he asks for permission to enter her mind.

She lets him in, meets him half-way, because apparently her voice won’t cooperate, but at least she can show him how she feels, over that string that binds them together. She hands over the images, the sensations she can’t put words to.

“I don’t think I can say it”, she mutters. “At least not yet.” But she makes sure he knows, engulfing him with every warm feeling she’s capable of.

He draws back to look at her, and his face is completely serious as he says: “You don’t have to. I don’t care if you never tell me. I’ll know anyway.”

And that’s what does it. 

Nesta hasn’t cried in years. Rage has been her weapon of choice, crowding out everything else, shutting down her emotional life. Rage, and hatred. But now large tears fall down her cheeks. She sniffles.

Cassian only pulls her closer; patient, understanding. Loving.

They stay that way for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms. She doesn’t know how long, but she knows she’s never felt as peaceful. 

When her tears have dried, he pulls his wings back, and strokes her cheek. It’s a gentle gesture, but the desire rerouses at his touch, and she can smell it on him too.

They’ll have each other again. Many times, before the week is over. But now she’s distracted by the sight out the window. The faelights on the balcony have gone out. The scent of salt and lemon still lingers, but the night sky has been replaced by a burned pink. The sunrise. Fluffy clouds line the mountains. The sun illuminates them from behind, giving them a silver lining.

And far down there, the Sidra meanders through Velaris, leading all the way to the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened here. Don't blame _me_.


End file.
